


A Quiet Place (Together We Go)

by philos_manthanein



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Post-Canon, Surrealism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8402236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philos_manthanein/pseuds/philos_manthanein
Summary: Miles isn't sure if he's in Hell or just dreaming. Whatever it is, he thinks it's unfair that Chris Walker is stuck here too.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sazzypantz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sazzypantz/gifts).



> This was supposed to be a short fic for my friend's birthday but it kinda got out of hand. (I don't think she minds though~)  
> Title taken from a MONO song.

They found him and that's impossible. It can't be true, because Miles knows he's dead. He's  _ so _ dead because everything should hurt, but it doesn't. He's swiss- _ fucking _ -cheese right now, he knows it.

Heaven is a hospital room with flickering florescent lights, apparently. Or maybe it's Hell. Definitely Hell, he knows what he's done. College alone was probably enough to earn him eternal damnation.

Could be worse really, he thinks, because there's an IV dripping something into his arm and he doesn't know what it is but it fills him with all sorts of warm fuzzies. There's hardly any gnashing of teeth or flagellation. Father Martin had this shit all wrong, man. The TV in the corner even has a telenovela playing quietly. He has no idea what anyone is saying but boy is that brunette lady pissed.

All in all the afterlife isn't that bad. He rests back against his bed and falls asleep before the first commercial.

* * *

 

He's back at Mount Massive and oh, okay, here comes the actual hellish part of being in Hell. Got it. Poetic justice and all that. If he weren't currently running for his non-existent life he'd send a big shout out to Satan for his sense of just retribution. But, come on, was he really that bad? Does he really deserve to relive this fucking nightmare over and over again?

A wall, an entire section of plaster wall, practically explodes in front of him and there's that big motherfucker again. Question answered, he supposes. He turns heel and bolts down a hall. Were the halls in the real Mount Massive this long? He can't see the end but he hears Big Nasty thundering along behind him and he just keeps going. Until his lungs are burning and tight and his legs feel like they're going to snap in half. 

And it's hot, it's so hot, and everything is burning. Flames licking at his skin, charring. Destroying his clothes and flesh and reaching in to turn him to ash. Cinders flutter behind him and he's not even sure how he's still running.

And all he can think about is how unfair it is that Chris Walker is trapped here too.

* * *

 

The hospital again. This is getting a little weird, Miles thinks. He tries to wonder what sort of deep important symbolism this is. Tries, but his brain is full of warm honey because the drip is there again. Might be worth it, if he gets a little of this, after a little of that. Maybe they're testing to see if he'll resist the temptation, the re-dose remote is in his palm after all. Miles was never that good at self-restraint, probably the whole point he's here. He pushes it anyway and smiles all loopy as more good stuff sinks into his limbs.

There's a noise like a door opening. He looks but only sees hazy light. His eyes feel so heavy. He thinks he sees a shadow. Thinks he hears a voice. Someone telling him to take it easy, and he is, man. He's so taking it easy. Maybe he said that out loud. Maybe there's no one there at all.

* * *

 

By his fifteenth or so time back in the asylum he's starting to feel a little jaded by the whole experience. He kept running for a while, trying different exits or directions but it doesn't make a difference. He still burned or fell off some ledge or some other bullshit pseudo-death. Sometimes he actively looked for Chris just so it would end faster. Tear him to pieces and rend him down the the last hunk of meat. He always wakes up in the hospital with the wonder drugs and soap operas in Spanish.

After a while Chris stops showing up and the building stops burning and everything is just sort of smoldering. Falling apart. There are bodies but no people. No one coherent nor running at him ass-naked, dick flailing in the wind like they want to give him the world's most traumatic hug. It's probably weird he'd find that preferable to all this decaying filth.

The problem with the building being empty is there's nothing to kill him. No release back to the hospital. No sweet, soupy IV drip. No quiet whispers and gentle manipulation of his limbs as he's sure some demon in a nurse getup is checking his vitals for whatever nonsense reason. No finding out if Maria and Jennifer finally duked it out on Noche del Amor.

He's dead but he also wants to die. It's  _ really hard _ to die when you're already dead. Once, he summoned up the courage to throw himself down a stairwell and all it earned him was a lot of ridiculous noise and painfully broken bones. They grind together whenever he moves. He tried dragging himself across the disgusting floor for a while, then realized it was pointless. So now he's laying on his back in some disaster of what used to be an office. Breathing ragged and he tastes blood but he doesn't die. It's so fucking stupid.

It feels like days pass, and they could have. All he's seen is the ceiling for so long. When a shadowy hulking mass appears in his vision he assumes it's a hallucination. It's Chris, and he's currently not turning him into bloody mashed potatoes, so he  _ must _ be hallucinating. Those creepy gross eyes and creepier gross mask staring down at him and Miles smiles.

“Hey, man.” Miles's voice is so dry and so raspy. “Do me a favor?”

He doesn't have to elaborate. Chris considers the words for only a moment, with the slightest inclination of his head. Then one massive hand picks Miles up by the throat. And Miles laughs something weak and pathetic but sincere.

“Thanks.” He says, and Chris snaps his neck.

* * *

 

Finally, he's back at the hospital. The drip is there but the remote is gone. The TV is off. He's warm, tucked into heavy blankets. Moving his head to see more of his surroundings, Miles notices there are quite a few new apparatuses attached to his limbs and torso. Machines bleeping and blinking in the dark of his room.

The door opens and the bleeping hitches. Fast and faster because he can see Chris there. Unmistakable now, that form. It's instant panic unlike the asylum before. It’s not fair. He was safe here. Why can't he catch a fucking break? Alarms are going off, real and imaginary, and Miles is stuck to this stupid fucking bed he worked so hard for, wanted so badly. All he can do is slam his eyes shut and wait. And wait. And he's warm again. Flush with chemicals again.

Falling asleep again.

* * *

 

God, fucking shit fucking god damn it. Fuck.

He opens his eyes and yes, it's Mount Massive again. What's left of it, anyway. It looks ancient, even more than before. A ruin, reclaimed by scraggly trees and creeping vines and invasive grass. The sky is dark with rain clouds. It's hard to tell if it's day or night.

He's cold. Shivering and holding his arms tight. His hands still hurt and he only now realizes it. Still raw and bleeding and missing his goddamn-fucking-fingers, really? He couldn't even get those back?

Miles walks through the ruin aimlessly and angry. And of course,  _ of fucking course _ , he finds Chris Walker again. Unmistakable. Sitting all hunched over with his scars and mass and he hasn't noticed Miles.

Miles doesn't care. He makes a point to walk right in front of him. Motherfucker doesn't even have the decency to flinch. Miles stops in front of him and he doesn't even look up. It pisses him off. He's so fucking angry. Hands on his hips, teeth grinding, seething. The look his mom got when he was 14 and stole the family car.

“Hey. Hey!” Miles kicks some dirt and rocks at Chris and he doesn't move, just breathes all ragged; twisted skin and teeth. “What? Ain't I your lil piggy anymore?”

Nothing but a heavy, enormous sigh. And Miles hates him. He hates that he's not doing a god damned thing. Hates that he's not shouting in that primal way he does when he's hunting Miles down, ready to tear him limb from limb. Hates he doesn't even notice Miles is there, because so far they've been stuck in this together and, yeah, he panicked in the hospital but this is far, far worse.

“Fuck you.” He says, low and dark and angry. “Say something! Hello?!”

Miles throws a punch and that was stupid because Chris might as well be a brick wall. Missing fingers and all, Miles shouts out in pain and wonders if he's broken something even more. He doesn't care, the weird cycle he's in proved long ago nothing he did was permanent. Nothing lasted. He might as well be a ghost. Fuck, he probably is.

So he hits Chris again and it does nothing but hurt himself. And, god, he has so much regret and hate in him for Mount Massive, and himself, and that motherfucking whistle-blower that called him there, and Murkoff, and he hates everything and he wants to hate Chris too.

He hits and kicks and calls him insults and throws all he has into hating him and in the end he falls limply to his knees. Miles's hands rest in his lap a bloody mess and it's all his own blood and sinew dangling from them. And he's panting. And he's crying. And he doesn't give a shit that he's crying at all. What's left to care about?

There's a pressure against his mangled hands. Miles opens his eyes and through the hot tears blurring his vision he can make out an unmistakable hand. Something in his chest sinks into his gut. He looks to Chris, but he's not looking back, he's just staring at their hands. Like he also can't believe, can't understand why, he did that.

It's so fucked up. Everything really has gone to shit. Miles curls over, holding Chris's big, scarred-up, scary hand. Cradling it into his stomach. Half expecting Chris to suddenly reach into him and rip out his guts like the world's saddest pinata. But he doesn't. Everything goes quiet and still save for a small breeze through the ruins.

And Miles decides he suddenly likes it here more than the hospital.

* * *

 

He doesn't know when he falls asleep but he wakes up still in the ruins. The wind still rustles the trees; he hears it, but doesn't feel. He opens his eyes and it’s dark and he panics thinking he's somehow gone blind. Sitting up he notices there's something over his face. Pulling it off he realizes it's a bed sheet, all wrinkled and dirty and full of holes. It was probably white at some point.

Had Chris covered him, from head to toe, in a white sheet? Did he think he was cold, or dead? Why?

Who, what, where, when, why...

Right, he was a journalist. He should do a little more investigating. It's not like he had anything else to do.

Miles stands up, wrapping the sheet around him. Even though it’s thin, it somehow seems more insulating than any clothing. He doesn’t dwell on that, whatever world or dream or nightmare this was seemed to make up its own reality. Wouldn’t be surprised if the thing burst into flames while he wore it.

Chris wasn’t immediately nearby. Miles wonders what happens to him when he disappears like that. Does he just phase in and out of existence? Does he have to die, like Miles seemingly did? Was he even real at all?

Miles feels his chest tighten at that last thought. He hadn’t considered Chris wasn’t real. But it had to be true, right? The more he thinks about this situation, the more it seems obvious this is all in his head, Wizard Of Oz style. Fuck, he should have known that Judy Garland phase in middle school would come back to haunt him. 

And shouldn’t he be relieved to know Chris wasn’t actually there?

He stops walking and sits on the crumbling remains of a wall. Time to really take stock.

Miles Upshur. Freelance Investigative Journalist. Located in some fucked up headspace or some such bullshit. Unknown time. Unknown reasons. 

Who, what, where, when, why…

Two heavy weights rest on his shoulders, and that wasn’t metaphorical but two literal heavy weights. Miles makes a confused noise. The emotion only compounds as the weights tighten on him and suddenly, swiftly he’s lifted.

“Wh- Hey!” He yelps, yes  _ yelps _ , and finds himself resting on his stomach over one of Chris’s huge shoulders, dangling like a doll. “Excuse me?!”

Chris doesn’t say a thing, just carries Miles like a sack of really confused potatoes through the ruins. Miles tries kicking his legs, tapping his hands on Chris’s back, really anything to get him to let go. 

“Hey. Dude. Pal.” Miles growls through his teeth, still confused and awfully weirded out. “Fuckin’... If you’re gonna kill me again just do it, Jesus Christ.”

Chris pauses then, for a second, then readjusts Miles so he’s no longer laying on his stomach but sitting upright on Chris’s shoulder. He starts walking again and Miles reels, nearly falling backwards. Chris reaches up with one hand, grabbing his hip and Miles grabs the hand with both of his for more leverage.

“Yeah, okay. This is happening now, sure.” Miles is exasperated. “The hell is going on with you, Walker?”

And Miles laughs, just slightly, because as  _ super fucking weird  _ as this is, he’s sort of relieved he’s not alone. Even if it’s temporary. Even if Chris isn’t real.

They enter a less dilapidated part of the ruins, where walls still stand tall and there are bits and pieces of furniture laying around. There’s a staircase dangling from the second floor landing, the bottom of it seemingly collapsed. Chris walks closer to it and looks up at it. Miles looks too, seeing an open doorway on the second floor. He can’t see anything inside because it is full of light, shining so bright it hurts his eyes and leaves a purple-blue afterimage in his vision.

“What? Stairway to Heaven?” Miles jokes, and Chris grunts, and Miles chooses to pretend he made the big guy laugh. 

Chris grabs him again and lifts him easily, placing him on the stair case. Miles sits there, worried by the creaking noise of the wood that it may collapse further. When it doesn’t he sighs, relieved. He looks down at Chris, then back to the door, then back to Chris.

“See, thing is I’ve sort of learned my lesson about going through unmarked doorways in this place.” Miles says. 

Chris stares at him and it’s just as frightening as the first time.

“Always the scary face with you. Ever hear of ‘turn that frown upside down’?” Miles gestures at his own mouth. “Could you even with that thing? Does it hurt?... Nevermind, forget I asked.”

“Go.” Chris says, and it honestly makes Miles jump in surprise.

“Oh, so you  _ can _ still talk?” Miles replies.

“Go through the door.” Chris reiterates, voice gravelly and disjointed.

Miles glances back at it, still seeing nothing but white. He gets a distinctive feeling. Not dread but apprehensive. He doesn’t trust anything that can happen in this place. Seen too many surreal shifts and experienced too many disasters. He looks back at Chris. Is it weird that, of all things, he thinks he can trust him? Even if he is an illusion.

“Okay,” Miles swallows at the tension in his throat. “Fine. But if this thing ‘Poltergeist’s’ me I expect you to drag me out of the ectoplasm slime. You happen to have a rope? No? Oh well…” 

Miles stands and, taking a deep breath, turns toward the door. The light radiating from it makes his eyes ache, so he shuts them tight. Even that’s not enough, so he turns his head away as he walks forward. The closer he gets, the more he hears a light, static sort of noise. Like TV snow. He reaches out a hand and can feel it on his skin. Like pins and needles. It doesn’t hurt. The lack of pain doesn’t make it any less frightening. Miles panics and wants to turn back.  _ Fuck this. _

Something grabs his wrist.

He shouts, trying to yank it back but it digs in tighter. Threatening to snap his bones with how strongly it grips him. Miles still tries to wrench away, looking back at Chris. He can only make out his silhouette. Miles screams for him anyway, shouting for help as he’s being dragged further into the static void.

He can’t see Chris anymore, but he can hear him.

“I’m sorry.” His voice comes, faint.

And Miles is devoured by the light. 


End file.
